


Christmas Blackout

by jendavis



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Cabin Fic, Fluff and Angst, Glenn Rhee Lives, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jendavis/pseuds/jendavis
Summary: (AU: The war with the saviors happened a bit differently, but nobody's seen Daryl since Rick took Negan back to Alexandria.)(also this is late as hell lolll)It's Christmas at Hilltop, and Maggie's throwing a party.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Jesus
Comments: 7
Kudos: 82
Collections: Desus Holiday Bingo 2k19





	Christmas Blackout

**Author's Note:**

> This may be suuper late, but I hit every cell on my card, so... yeah. XP

After days of gray skies and almost-freezing rain, the snow had been a welcome change- as if the weather, too, had suddenly remembered that tonight was the Christmas party, and it was time to shake the snowglobe and get to decorating. 

Now, though, the storm has stopped, leaving Hilltop blanketed in thick, crystalline snow. Above, the sky is clear, it's _beautiful_. With the stars and the nearly-full moon reflecting off it all, Maggie can see all the way into the guard tower- she can see the fog of Glenn's _breath_ as he laughs at whatever Abe's saying. 

A scatter of loose snowflakes swirls past the window, and for a moment, she can feel the chill of the breeze on her throat. 

The slight draft coming from the window is welcome; between the roar of the fireplace and the combined body heat of a hundred people piled into the ballroom, talking, laughing and singing, the air inside Barrington House is heavy and warm. 

The kids had tired themselves out playing in the snow, everyone's had enough to eat, and Aidan finally seems to have run out of traditional songs to entertain them with, and has moved on to Johnny Cash. Mulling the wine the Kingdom had sent over makes it more than palatable- Enid and the other teens, thinking they're being sneaky, would seem to agree. 

Picking up one of the fallen ornaments- a pinecone dusted with paint and glitter- she places it back on the tree, which Bertie and the children had spent the better part of the blizzard decorating. The sheer number of things they'd managed to hang on it _nearly_ make up for the fact that it is, indeed, still listing slightly to into the corner. Underneath, the gifts are piled up- 

-and, _right_. Shift change is happening soon, if they're going to do this Secret Santa thing, they should probably start before shift change. 

She starts counting heads, does a little math; it looks like there are a few people missing, and she can't help it, a thread of worry catches, momentarily, at the edge of her attention- living through war will do that to you. 

Jen, looking relieved when Maggie comes back to the couch, volunteers to go round up the stragglers. Hershel's been doing a pretty good job of it tonight, all things considered, but the moment Jen passes him back, he resumes his attempts to escape the reindeer pajamas, and he's starting to get cranky about it. 

When she comes back downstairs ten minutes later, it's the trail of snow cutting across the front hall, and tense stances of the teenagers standing underneath the wreath that clues her in first. And when she enters the room to find everyone looking at Kal and Jen, and the two of them looking worriedly at _her_ , that a completely different kind of chill runs through her system. 

Paul was supposed to be back several hours ago. 

And there's been no sign of him. 

\---

"Even with the snow, he should've made it back there by now," Rick shakes his head, frowning at Carl as he dials in the Kingdom's frequency to relay Maggie's worried message. 

"I _know_ ," Carl argues, vehemently. "It's just that he said he'd _already stopped_ over there on his way _here_."

"And he's smart enough to stop back in again on his way back if the weather's getting bad," Michonne gestures at the snow piled up outside. "Which it _did_."

Carl clearly isn't convinced- Rick notices the vindicated quirk of the eyebrows when the Kingdom confirms they haven't seen him since this morning- but at least he waits until Rick's not broadcasting off to mouth off, channelling Daryl whenever he's making the effort to be an asshole. "I'm just saying. It was already getting bad when he left. Dude might be some kind of smart, but he still climbs up on the top of moving trucks like he ain't gonna fall off of them and get his ass run over." 

Annoying thing is, he's got a point. 

\--- 

It's been so long since Daryl's heard the radio go off that when he first blinks awake, batting his book aside, he thinks it's an alarm clock that he hasn't owned in twenty years. But then Carol repeats herself. 

_"Daryl, you cranky old bastard, you there?"_

"I'm here," he says, wincing at both the sound of his own voice and the tray of screws he'd knocked askew tripping over Dog as he'd rummaged on the table for the radio. "Carol, what's up?"

"Well, anyway, _first_ off, Merry Christmas."

"Uh, you too," He frowns, trying to figure out what kind of emergency this is crackin' up to be, 'cause it ain't like he's wasting batteries keepin' this thing on just to get yelled at over social arrangements neither of them had really expected him to show up for in the first place. "Sorry I couldn't make it to your party thing."

"Liar," she accuses, her short laugh crackling on the wire. "I know, I know, work to do on that murder shack you call an upgrade. I've got a tin of baked goods for you, bring it out in a few days. In the meantime, though, we've got a missing persons situation to deal with."

Shit. With the weather like this- the cold snap, freezing rain, and the blizzard that followed, burying everything in several inches of snow, it's going to be tough tracking.

"Who's missing?" He's already formulating the next questions- _how many missing, do they have a radio, where and how were they traveling, what the fuck were they thinking_ \- that he almost misses her reply. 

"Paul. Jesus. From Hilltop," she clarifies, like Daryl hadn't spent a week and a half crashing on his couch. "Everyone's about ready to send out search parties from all points, but I was hoping he'd swung past your place and just forgotten to radio in. Have you seen him around today?"

He flips open the curtain to check outside, though there ain't nothin' but snow as far as the eye can see. Which is weird, he decides, because _apparently_ , it means he'd been expecting to find him just walking up the footpath to his cabin easy as nothing, like the fact that three entire communities were upending themselves just to come lookin' for his ass wasn't even on his radar. 

Which ain't fair, and Daryl knows it. 

Jesus ain't stupid. He clowns a lot, but he's quick. 

He's also not there- Daryl ain't sure why he'd expected him to be, since it ain't like Jesus knows where _here_ even is, so far as he knows- and apparently one nanosecond of hopin' for shit to go easy is all it takes for- startlingly _heavy_ \- disappointment. 

"No," he says, already looking for his hat, "I ain't seen him in weeks."

\--- 

He gets what information he can from Carol- Jesus was last seen leaving Alexandria in a green hatchback, nobody's seen an emergency flare- and then tunes in to monitor the cross-community channel as everyone begins to coordinate their efforts. Like it always does whenever something's going down, it gets bogged down with side chatter almost immediately. He's _almost_ managed to tune the noise out by the time he gathers his gear together and gets Dog ready to head out. 

It's a ten minute drive out to the main road in good weather, though the sleet and snow on the road makes it take more like twenty, and his back's a solid knot before he even makes it halfway. He winds up overshooting, sliding clean through the intersection before managing to slide to a stop on the other side of the highway. 

He finds the trail, though. That's the important thing. There are ruts in the snow- nearly invisible underneath the more freshly fallen snow, but _there_. There's no making out any sort of tread design- it ain't like animal tracks- but he does have the advantage of knowing which way Paul would've been heading. He's got a guess, anyway. 

"Think I've got the trail," he gets on the radio, nearly slipping on his ass _again_ as he turns back to the car. "I'm gonna chase it towards Hilltop."

Rick's the one to respond. "Daryl, that's good." There's a pause, heavy on the line, both of them aware that this is the first time they've spoken since October, neither of them really knowin' what to do about it. "We're seeing it too. Gonna follow it up to the old farm road turnoff, make sure we're not looking at two sets of tracks. But hey, at least on the bright side, it's not like there's rush hour to contend with, yeah?"

 _That ain't a bright side_ , he wants to say, catching himself sneering and feeling the cold on his teeth. Nobody else bein' out here means that nobody else would've been out here to _help_. It has him wantin' to know why it is that Jesus'd been allowed to go out solo, but he stops himself. One, because Daryl ain't used to bein' on this particular side of the argument, and two, because it's probably Maggie Jesus needs to be havin' it out with anyway. 

\--- 

Here's the thing. He's very used to worryin' about Jesus. 

Or, more like, worrying about sayin' the wrong thing, bein' too much of an asshole or not enough of one. 

Or about Jesus noticing anything at _all_ that he don't need to be noticing. 

Hell, according to Maggie's last lecture, Daryl'd gotten so good with all this worryin' bullshit that the guy's convinced Daryl can't stand him. Even Glenn'd chimed in, tellin' him it might not be the worst idea to make some kind of _concerted effort_ to _just be friendly_ , if only for Maggie's sake. Which, yeah. 

They're probably right about it; he owes those two that much at least, after everything. Don't mean he's got a clue how to _do_ that. 

This worrying _for_ Jesus, though, is new; he's never given Daryl _cause_ to worry. All through the war, Jesus had been the quickest of them all. Maybe even the smartest. He'd known when to attack and when to retreat, and he'd had a weird knack for pulling jack moves at the right time, completing the mission, and comin' out of it the other side without a scratch. 

Which means that if he ain't even managed to check in, things're _bad_. 

Anyone else, they could be dumbass enough to just let their guard down, or wander off the trail the way Dr. Carson'd done back in October. With Paul, though... he knows his way around, he can handle himself. If _he's_ in over his head, odds are good the situation's probably over _everyone's_. 

Which means-

-fuck, no, _stop that_. 

It don't mean shit. Not yet. He's got to _find_ the asshole, first. 

\---

Down in the valley, all Daryl's got for markers, aside from the power line posts set so far back that they're useless, are the ditches on the side of the road. Even then, most of them are overgrown, and with the snow covering absolutely every-fucking-thing, he's relying -almost completely- on the tire tracks. Sometimes, he loses them completely under drifting snow; it ain't like there are a whole lot of places to turn off, but if he finds himself meeting up with the Kingdom's search party, he's got a few ideas of places he could check. He keeps to a crawl, but between the faintness of the tracks and the blinding glare of headlights on snow, has to get out more than once- crampons on, now- to take a closer look. With every span of tracks he rediscovers, he starts to worry that he's only got a finite number of successes left. 

The tracks are clearest- carved deepest, he's sure of it, by wheels starting to lose traction- as they're heading up the bridge over the creek. The truck fares better, here, and as he reaches the apex, he allows himself a sigh of relief. The guardrails are sturdy, unbroken. 

And then, suddenly, the tracks are swerving wildly, then _gone_. The truck stops almost immediately once he hits the brakes; the snow's all churned up here, he's actually got traction. When he gets out, he can hear metal on concrete with every step he takes. 

Which is unfortunate, because the road up ahead isn't just pockmarked with clumps of leaves and late-falling snow from the trees above, but by several sets of dragging, uneven footprints. 

He rolls down the window- just in case he needs to whistle- and instructs Dog to _stay_ , though he don't seem happy about it. Dog knows the routine too well, but the snow and ice are a variable that Daryl ain't gonna risk if he don't have to. Readying his bow, he takes a deep, steadying breath, trying to shove aside the bad odds he's tryin' not to calculate.

Picking up the trail is easy enough. 

Looking at where it ends is much, much harder. 

\--- 

Flashlight in one hand, knife in the other, he makes his way carefully down the wooded embankment. He doesn't have far to go. 

At first, all he can _really_ see are the bodies- half a dozen walkers, scattered all down the hill in the debris-strewn snow. And it probably says somethin' fucked about him that the sight of them, sprawled in gory heaps around the hatchback, is a relief. It means that someone was alive to kill 'em twice. The driver's side door hanging open means that Jesus had opened it, that he'd managed to get away. 

Unless it means someone _else_ had opened it. Like those whisperer freaks they'd chased out last fall, _shit_ , maybe they're back-

-the windshield, he realizes, coming around the side, is shattered and so is the passenger side window. _That_ airbag, at least, had inflated, not that it would've done Jesus any good; it's halfway dragged out over the jagged edges of the glass, streaked with gore and tangled in the sinew and bone of the headless walker hanging against the outside of the door.

 _Could be worse_ , he tries convincing himself. It could've been a full herd. He be looking at Paul's corpse, stuck halfway through the windshield, all clawing hands and glassy eyes. But he don't seem to be here. 

Shouldering the crossbow, he flips back the mittens off his gloves, and grabs the radio off his belt. In the silence of the trees, the airwave crackles is crisp and loud. 

_Too_ loud; he spins, hooking the radio back onto his belt and swinging his crossbow up in one movement, transferring his grip to shine the flashlight into the trees. 

Two walkers are stumbling towards him, uncaring of the underbrush, but also ignoring the relatively clear path on the other side of the tree. 

It slows them down nicely, giving him a chance to put a bolt in the first one's head. Reloading the second is taking far too long with the gloves; he sets it down against the wheel of the car and readies his knife. Stepping forward to where he's got more room to move. The second walker nearly trips over the first, snapping branches and letting out a rasping, choked off noise as it drags itself free, and Daryl picks his target- the side of it's head-

-there's so much _red_ , and it's- 

- _he's_ \- 

-falling sideways against the tree, flailing as he tries to deflect the attack that Daryl _barely_ manages to abort. 

The breath Daryl takes is deeper than he means to. Colder, too. "Jesus?" 

No response, but it _is_ him, squinting at him blearily- better _that_ than the cataracts he'd been expecting. Lowering the flashlight, he tries again. " _Paul?_ "

And them, finally, a response, his voice quiet and pained, and still, somehow, amused. 

"Hey."

\--- 

The trek back up to the truck is a blur; one minute he's tryin' to keep them both balanced without jostling Jesus's gingerly-held arm, the next he's trying to get him into the truck without Dog trying to bowl them both over. The wind's picking up, cutting cold, and it seems like it's been hours by the time they're situated in the truck enough for him to radio the other search parties. 

The head wound needs a couple of stitches, and his wrist is sprained. It's hard to tell whether concussion or frostbite are bigger concerns. 

He radios Maggie, explains the situation, deciding as he's talking to take him back to the cabin, rather than risk the much longer drive out to Hilltop. 

"I've got him. He's in rough shape, but moving under his own steam. Gonna get him sorted out at my place, it's easier'n tryin' to ice skate all the way out there in this shit."

"You sure? Doc Carson-"

Jesus's hand- damn thing feels like ice- hits the back of his hand, gesturing for the radio. Now that he's had a few swings of water, most of his voice seems to have returned. "Maggie, it's okay. I'm fine. I'm tired, and I froze my ass off, but I think I still have all my toes and my head hurts more on the outside than on the inside."

Daryl doesn't mention the wrist- he gets it- and instead reaches over to point more of the hot air from the dash in Jesus's direction. At least he's got his coat on, and a scarf, even if he'd lost his hat. Soon as he's done promising Maggie that they'll keep Dr. Carson posted, Daryl trades him the radio for his gloves. 

"I don't-"

"Shut up and take 'em," he says, trying not to watch how gingerly he pulls them on. It's not just the wrist, but pulling the mittens over the fingers that seems to be giving him trouble. But the thought of helping _that_ much gives him pause, and instead, he focuses on turning the car around, and getting them out of here. 

\--- 

Dog curls up in his spot next to the wood burning stove before Daryl even gets it going and throws the kettle on. Jesus ignores the chair he's been offered in favor of wandering around the house, while Daryl pretends not to notice he's doing it. Or that he wonders what he thinks of it. Not like it matters. It's only been, what, two, three months since they've spoken?

The cabin _is_ small, Daryl will admit, but its functional. There's the kitchen, and the pantry, the living room he sleeps in and the bedroom he's converted to a shop. Aside from that, there's the bathroom, half a basement for storage, and that's it. 

"Nice place," Jesus eventually decides, coming back to lean against the bathroom door frame, mittens and coat still on. Head wounds always bleed, but he's struck, momentarily, with how _exactly_ he looks like some iconic painting of his namesake. He considers making a joke about him dressing for the crucifixion rather than his birthday, but maybe it'll be funnier later, once they're a bit more clear of this. "Definitely an upgrade from the tent. This why you nobody's seen you in months?"

"Yeah. Had to fix the septic, the roof, and some of the piping from the well. Finally got the shower functioning last month."

"Ah, so that's it." Jesus smirks, eyebrows twitching, which means he's bored and stirrin' up shit for the hell of it. "I knew you were just using me for my plumbing."

"Yeah, well," he stalls, gesturing at the bathroom. "Speaking of which. Towels are on the shelf in there, you want to grab a shower. I'll grab you somethin' dry and get set up here. Need to check your head, which probably ain't the first time you've heard that."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Jesus stretches as he stands up out of his lean, then disappears into the bathroom.

He reappears two minutes later, still dressed, ducking Daryl's eyes, lookin' fuckin' _mortified_. 

"So," he says, holding up hands that are so still so bloodless they might actually be blue. "I can't get the buttons."

The leather's so thick and stiff, and the buttons so tightly sewn- probably a recent repair job- that it takes Daryl a minute to fight them open. Which is just as well, because as long as he's fighting with plastic and heavy leather, he's not thinking about what he's doing, or thoughts he might've had that might've looked a lot like this. 

Jesus is staring through him, eyes wide- which at least gives him the opportunity to look for any signs of a concussion, though he doesn't find any. But then he realizes what he's doing, how he's _starin' back_ , and he swallows, stepping back. "You got the rest?"

"Yeah," Jesus nods, dropping his head into a nod as he turns back. "Thanks."

\---

 _You fucking idiot_.

It's not the first time he's said that to himself today, but it's still true.

The first time had been when the roads had started to get dicey. But he'd needed to get out of Alexandria before anyone could drag him into any of the festivities he'd been hoping to avoid by making deliveries in the first place. 

The second time was when he'd slammed on the brakes. He _knows_ he could've taken the walker out and just kept going, he'd had the momentum on his side. But some old-wired part of his brain had seen _human_ , and he'd panicked, sending the car into a sliding swerve.

The third time was when he'd taken two seconds to catch his breath after impact. He hadn't noticed, at first, that the windshield and one of the windows were shattered. 

He'd lost seconds fighting his knife out of the sheath before realizing he'd still been strapped in to the car. He'd taken out the one coming through the passenger's side easily enough, and had immediately almost backed into the one climbing over the hood. And so on and so on and fucking _so on_ , as he'd slipped on the ice outside, stabbing himself in the head with a sharp pine tree branch and losing his knife on the way down, only to find more of them coming.

The snow'd been coming down, and the wind whipping something awful, even in the woods. He'd moved as quickly as he could through the trees, looking for any sort of place that would give him an advantage, anything he could find to use as a weapon. He'd only noticed how fucked his wrist was when he'd tried- and failed, painfully- to pick up a sturdy stick. He'd only noticed his radio was missing and how _dark_ it was getting when it was too late to do anything about either. 

Face and hands damp, he'd been freezing. And alone. And in the snow, one direction had looked no more familiar than the next.

He'd eventually managed to lure and kill five more of them, the last one going down on the riverbank.

He'd stared at the bridge for what must've been a solid ten minutes before realizing that he if he went _towards_ it, he'd be able to find the car. When he'd gotten closer, he'd seen the flashlight, and he'd stepped up his pace, only to realize he wasn't the only one moving towards it. 

He'd been trying to take out the walker before it could attack; and had almost gotten killed for his troubles. 

Because Daryl- of all fucking people, _Daryl_ \- had been the one to find him. 

Daryl, the most competent person alive when it came to not getting killed in the woods, who Paul did _not_ like witnessing the vast expanse of his own incompetence. Who could run so fucking cold for weeks on end and then have Paul crushing on him all over again with just a smirk, even though Paul'd known better. Who nobody but Carol's even _seen_ since the end of the war, apparently content to have washed his hands of the rest of them. 

_Fuck_. 

The heat makes him drowsy, almost to the point of nausea, but he manages to keep it together. He gets cleaned up and steps out, noticing- with a new swooping sense of mortification- that Daryl'd set a stack of clothes on the floor just inside the door and he hadn't even heard the door open. 

He dries off, averting his eyes from the reflected trickle of red coming down from his hairline, gets dressed. The t-shirt and heavy, thick sweater smell a bit like woodsmoke; the flannel lined jeans are a bit too large, and, the socks are too thick to shove back into his soaked-through boots. 

He opens the door out into the hall, and that old familiar feeling slams into him again: He's a kid in hand-me-downs again, invading someone's space, knowing full well he's not particularly wanted, stepping up to await judgement. 

And Daryl's just staring at him. 

\--- 

Fucking hell, this is exactly what Daryl'd been dreading. 

Jesus is just standing there, swimming in Daryl's clothes, and, like everything else in the goddamned world- probably up to and including the weird hat and lobster bib he'd kept in his trailer- it suits him perfectly. 

Because Jesus's always got his shit together. And the main thing Jesus probably knows about Daryl is that Daryl _doesn't_. 

Daryl doesn't remember much of the escape from the Saviors' compound beyond blood, panic, and the smell of rotten dog food, but he _does_ remember the way Jesus'd looked at him- the wary, startled, not-quite-afraid look you'd give a pathetic-but-thrashing wounded animal. And he remembers how he'd been afterwards, letting him crash in his quarters, not pressing, letting him pretend, for a while, that he was invisible. 

Now, though, Jesus's eyes are sharp and wary, like he's waiting for him to do or say something disappointing, and Daryl ain't really got a clue what that's supposed to be. 

_But you can stop bein' a little bitch and conversate like a normal human_ , he tells himself, in Merle's voice, since at least Merle hadn't ever given a shit when he'd said the wrong thing. "So, uh," he tries, feeling phony as hell. "How's things at Hilltop?"

There's a beat, and then, suddenly, Jesus' shoulders jerk sharply as he breathes out a startled laugh.

But he recovers quickly, setting his face back to neutral, but there's a bit of the _fuck you, Gregory_ back in his eyes. "Completely infested with holiday cheer." He says it in the same kind of tone he'd heard him use to describe trade meetings with Oceanside, and supply runs with Eugene. "Maggie organized what amounted to a _mandatory_ holiday celebration, complete with decorations, bad punch, carols, and presents because _'tis the season._ "

"That bad, huh?" 

Jesus sighs, shaking his head, like he's realizing he was complaining- about _Maggie_ , to _Daryl_ \- and he knows he's got to apologize for it. Which is surprisingly irritating. "I mean- sorry- it's fine, and I know everyone probably needed it-" 

"-but you're starting to wonder if you've got it in you to organize another coup?" Daryl finishes for him, kind of hoping for another laugh as he passes him a coldpack from the icebox.

Grinning, Jesus sits down on the chair Daryl'd had to clear off for him. "Yeah. Well. No." He deflates. "I just kind of volunteered for a delivery run out to the Kingdom and planned on avoiding what I could when I got back."

 _Yeah, well, how'd that work out for ya?_ he doesn't ask. Though he could- they both know he _knows_ better.

But then he catches the way Jesus drops his eyes- not quite flinching, like he's just tryin' to get it out of the way- and honestly, it's too late and he's too tired to get into it. 

Looking closer, the cut on his hairline ain't as bad as he'd thought it was, though it'll scar regardless. 

"Way Maggie was sounding, she's probably getting you coal for your grinch-ass birthday anyway."

"I see what you did there," he says, distracted by the medical supplies laid out on the table and the first sting of antiseptic on the cut. "But no, as a matter of fact, it was Tara who drew my name, and I have it on Denise's authority that there's a bottle of Malibu waiting for me under the tree."

\--- 

_"Malibu_ , you like that shit?"

It's not the first time Paul's had stitches. But it's not the worst, either, if only because there's no sterile smell creeping in on him from all sides, no hiss of ancient hospital heating systems struggling to keep up with the weather. 

"I hate it more than anything in the world."

"Huh." For a few minutes, Paul just lets his head be turned this way and that, and tries not to flinch too obviously at the antiseptic being dabbed into the cut on his head. "There a story there or something?"

"Why?"

"'Cause you don't seem like the type."

"What kind of type am I supposed to be?"

"Dunno. Always figured you for some kind of 200 year old scotch bullshit."

Burying the nervousness in his gut- Daryl'd apparently thought about him enough to figure him for _anything_ , and Paul wants to extrapolate more from that than he knows he should- he's quick to reply. "Think I was always more into quantity over quality, but I honestly can't remember." 

The words are out of his mouth and hanging there before he even realizes he'd spoken. Because yeah. Daryl's already patching him up because he'd gotten himself hurt like a total dumbass, might as well draw a line under the drunken blur that'd been his twenties. "I mean, I used to be. Guess the end of the world was good for something, you know?" 

\---

"Yeah," Daryl agrees, more than he'd been expecting to. It ain't how people usually like to talk about shit, but he's long figured it to be true, at least for him. He crouches, trying to get a better look at his head injury. "All right, look that way, yeah?" 

The overhead light ain't great for this, but the new angle means he can see, better, the thin sliver of glass that's keepin' everything bleeding. Ain't too large, from the looks of it. 

He lifts a few dozen strands of antiseptic-laden hair out of the way, combing them back with his fingers while reaching for the tweezers. 

"I'm gonna need to trim some of this out of the way," he tells him. "Shouldn't be much. Won't show up too bad. That alright?"

Paul nods, like he's barely listening, or maybe just has no opinion one way or the other, and Daryl gets to work. For the most part, aside from the occasional flinch as he cleans out the wound and starts putting the stitches in, Jesus lets him work in peace. But the feeling of the thread sliding through the raw mess of the cut can't be pleasant, and it's not long before the twitching sets in. 

"So tell me," Jesus says, clearly trying to distract himself from the second of the three sutures. "It's not like you ever RSVP'd to the festivities at the Maggie's _or_ Carol's-"

"Huh?" When the hell had _that_ come up?

"Just saying," Jesus continues, like he hadn't been interrupted. "It's pretty clear I'm not the only grinch in the room here. What's your excuse?"

Daryl shrugs, not really knowin' how to explain what it is about the being stuck inside with too many people and no escape. Even now, it still makes him a little anxious, even when he knows there ain't no real cause for it. Even when he knows it ain't gonna be like it was back home, when the forced togetherness would inevitably lead to drunken arguments and worse. 

And he don't really know why he's tryin' to string together an answer now, either. Except that watching Jesus grit his teeth as he pulls the stitches together makes him want to say _something_. So he settles for the middle route. 

"Always just seemed fake. Ugly sweaters, shitty music..." He completes the knot, and clips the loose ends, stepping back to look at him. "Hallmark movie bullshit, I dunno. What about you?"

"Pretty sure there's a _reason_ Hallmark never made one called _Group_ Home for the Holidays." Paul says, but his eyes narrow suddenly, like he's just heard his own words and is already figurin' out some kind of countermeasures in case Daryl says something stupid. 

Like that he's sorry, or that _gets it_. 

Or that Jesus is fucking annoyingly brave, sometimes. 

So he keeps his mouth shut. And a few moments later, is rewarded by Jesus smirking at him.

"What?"

"Just trying to picture you in a sweater."

Frowning- maybe the head injuries worse than he'd thought- Daryl taps at his arm, currently covered in proof to the contrary. 

"No, I mean, like an _ugly_ one. With bells and ribbons and reindeer on it."

"Fuck off."

\--- 

Paul's had enough of ice for a while, but his wrist is numb and cold enough that all he really notices, having it wrapped, is how warm Daryl's hands are. 

Which is unfortunate. And a little embarrassing, because Daryl's helping him out of the sweater to get the bandage wrapped around his shoulder to keep it in place. Once that's done, he drapes the sweater back over him, buttoning it just enough to stay in place without even asking. Like he's decided, _no, you don't get to be cold anymore_ , and it's fucking annoying, how _safe_ he feels. 

It wavers a bit when Daryl steps back to look at him, arms crossed. "So you're _sure_ you don't have a concussion."

"Pretty sure. And _yes_ , I've had enough of them for comparison's sake."

The answering scrutiny is heavy enough that he's starting to worry that he'll have to enumerate even more instances of his own mistakes, when finally, Daryl deigns to accept it. He passes him a lighter and points him towards the futon. "All right. Go chill, I'm gonna get some food together."

"You want any help?"

He lights only one of the tea lights from the box on the coffee table; if Daryl decides he wants to waste more, that's his decision to make. As soon as Paul stretches out on the futon Dog's licking his knee and settling in on his feet, just close enough that he can bury his uninjured hand in the warm fur behind his ear. This, he's please to discover, sets Dog to squirming happily, rolling onto his back, head lolling against his ankles. 

From the kitchen, he thinks he hears Daryl laugh. "Ain't room for it. But thanks. You warm enough?"

"I"m good. Found some slippers."

This causes Daryl to poke his head 'round the corner; he sighs, shaking his head. "Yeah, he does that. Want me to call him off?"

"Try it and I'll fight you."

\--- 

Dinner is heavy bread and rabbit stew, which only takes fifteen minutes because of _course_ Daryl knows how to can things and prep things so he can just whip out a full meal as easy as microwaving a TV dinner. They eat on the futon, where he learns that it's perfectly acceptable to put his feet up on the table- because apparently Daryl'd reinforced it for that exact purpose. 

The food's amazing, and he keeps it down just fine, not that he's planning on admitting that he'd worried about the possibility of things going otherwise. He stops himself from mentioning it more than twice, since Daryl's already looking awkward about the praise. 

Not that Paul's trying to look at him. Though after a while, it's probably really apparent that he's doing so. And it's not like there's much to see outside the window from here. So he glances over, casting about for something to say- _where've you been lately, how are you doing, you know we've all been worried about you out here_ \- and just barely catches sight of it. 

"Thought you said you didn't have any ugly Christmas sweaters."

Daryl glances down at the sweatshirt he'd changed into, probably when he'd been making dinner. The deer printed on top of the hunter's camouflage is bright orange, and he hadn't noticed it before now. "What?" he deadpans, setting his mostly-empty bowl on the floor for Dog to polish off. "I can be festive." 

"Uh-huh." 

"Gonna feed Dog," Daryl gets up. "You hurtin' at all?"

"Sore," Paul admits. "It's superficial, though. Not enough to waste anything on anything heavy."

"And the food's settlin' in okay?" 

"I'm fine. Really."

"That case, you want a drink?"

\--- 

"Just one," Daryl warns, setting two glasses on the table. 

"Happy birthday to me," Paul says, grinning and sitting up as he sets the glasses on the table. 

"Wait," Daryl pauses, holding back the pour suddenly to shoot him a concerned, nervous look. "Christmas ain't really your birthday, is it?"

Biting back a grin, he shakes his head, and accepts the a glass; once Daryl's sitting back next to him- maybe a little closer than before, maybe he's just imagining it. "No, it's worse."

"Worse how?"

"It's on _Valentine's_ Day."

"You're shittin' me," Daryl snorts, and then, when Paul shakes his head, hands open for truth, "I fuckin' hate Valentines Day."

Which, yeah, Paul should've expected that. 

"Me too." 

\--- 

Against his better judgement, he doesn't stop Jesus from leaning forward and pouring them both another round. But just the one. That, of course, is all the time Dog needs to sprawl out, so he shifts over a bit, tries to make room. Jesus fits, barely, pressed aside him from knee to shoulder, and it's not exactly comfortable. 

It ain't _un_ comfortable, neither. Just. It's cramped. He'd like to stretch his arm out, but he ain't sure what Jesus will do, so he doesn't. 

Aside from that, though, it's good. Weird, but good. Conversation comes and goes, not really goin' anywhere, not feelin' like it has to. 

Whether it's due to his duties as Maggie's second in command, or his attempts to avoid them, Jesus ain't really telling, but whatever the case, truth is, Jesus is the one who gets out and talks to everybody. It's a little weird, hearin' about Maggie and Glenn from _him_ \- there's a spike of _those people are mine_ that he can't quite help. 

Then again. He's the one who'd gotten Glenn beaten into a coma. Doesn't matter that he'd recovered, that's still on him. 

As far as the Kingdom goes, Carol's kept him posted on the broad strokes, though it's good to hear from someone _else_ that she's doing well. 

The situation in Alexandria, like always, is more complicated than it has to be. 

"...he didn't even make it to the end of the block before Rosita caught up with him, but still," Jesus says, apologetically. "Rick and Eugene reinforced the jail, it's been quiet since then. Thing is, now that it's winter, there's more people debating on whether Negan's worth the effort. People are worried about resources, or whether keeping someone who's physically capable of helping locked up is sustainable. So that's... you know."

He doesn't say _I told you so_ , 'cause he gets the sense that Jesus ain't the one needin' to hear it. 

\--- 

"It's not a huge drama yet, but I'm keepin' an eye on it." It's weird, talking to Daryl about Alexandria. It feels like walking through a landmine and finding out that so far, all of them have been duds. Maybe he just doesn't care any more, maybe this whole distance thing is working for him. Must be nice. 

But it's probably time to shift the subject. "In other news, Michonne, Rick, and the kids all seem to be doin' all right. Judith's getting big. Carl and Rick seem to be drivin' each other nuts."

"That's the understatement of the year."

"Huh?"

Daryl shrugs. "Carl came out hunting with me a few weeks back," he says, like it's something routine. Why that's annoying, Paul's not sure. "Scared most of the game away for all of his bitching."

"Bitching about..."

"Think he's just that age, the whole-" he breaks off, scowling as he shakes his head. "Chomping at the bit thing. Ten years ago, he'd probably be movin' out, goin' to college or something, you know?"

He nods, mostly to buy some time, and pretends not to notice the bottle sitting on the table. 

Only trouble is, Daryl notices him noticing. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Paul sits back, and Dog kicks him softly in the side, pressing against a bruise he hadn't yet registered. "Does he come out this way often?" He says it lightly, but there's a pause before Daryl answers that has him wondering if he's pulled it off. 

"Couple'a times, now." His eyes narrow; maybe it's just that the candle's started flickering, getting low. "Why?"

"Nothing. I mean, that's good," he says. And Daryl narrows his eyes, waiting him out. Which is stupid, because there's no real reason he needs to be all defensive and weird about this. It's just information, doesn't mean anything. So he shrugs, says, "I just figured you were avoiding everyone."

Daryl snorts. "Avoiding bullshit, maybe. But that ain't on Carl; we got a line open."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. He comes out when shit's getting' too much, keeps me posted on things goin' too far south." 

"So what you're telling me is that there's actually a Rick Grimes support group?"

Daryl huffs out a laugh. "I guess."

Which is good. 

Even if it doesn't go at all to explaining or stopping the sad fucking twisting in his chest. 

\--- 

Jesus is rambling tiredly about Jerry and Nabila- they've got a kid on the way- when the candle finally sputters out, and suddenly it's here- the awkward minute where he's got to figure out what the fuck's happening next. 

"Should probably get ready to crash out," he says, loud enough though it'd felt unsteady, sayin' it. 

"Works for me." Sitting up, Jesus rolls his head on his neck, then stands, stepping around the table. "All right, point me at where I'll be least in the way."

"Y'ain't sleepin' on the floor," he says, quick, before he gets the chance to overthink it. "Mean. Less you want to. Couch folds out." _It doesn't have to be weird_. 

Thankfully, Jesus just gives him the thumbs up. 

The next few minutes are spent shuffling around each other, getting the futon out, dragging the bedding out from underneath, taking turns hitting the can and getting changed for bed. It's all surprisingly _easy_ , up until he and Dog come back inside, stamping snow from their feet. 

The moonlit snow's messed with his night vision. As his eyes slowly readjust, he starts to make out Jesus, sitting on the edge of the futon. He's got his elbows on his knees, and his head bowed, hair falling into his face. Daryl watches him flex and prod at his injured arm for a minute before it occurs to him that he probably should've offered him the coldpack by now. 

Checking again to make sure the icebox latch is closed snugly- he manages to avoid knocking his shin on the coffee table, and passes him the coldpack.

Jesus nods his thanks. Doesn't lose one bit of the rigidity in his spine, and doesn't look up. "You sure this is okay?"

Actually, he's nervous in a way that he hasn't been since...well, Jesus's trailer, once he'd pulled his head out of his own ass to be aware of anything at all. This time, though, he ain't got no place else to bolt to. And Jesus don't, neither. 

"Last time I made you sleep on the floor didn't end so well," he says, kicking his boots off. He hadn't bothered lacing them before he'd gone out; the snow stuck to his socks is already melting, so he takes those off too. Then, as unceremoniously as he can, he rucks the bedding back and climbs in. 

Jesus just _waits_ , for a second, long enough that Daryl's convinced this is all about to go _wrong_ , but then he sighs, gets in, lies down. 

He knows he's holding his breath. He's a little concerned about the fact that he's going to need to gasp for air, at this point. 

Thankfully, like he always does, Dog saves his ass. Jumping up on the foot of the bed, he worms his way up the middle, wedging himself between him and Paul, planting his head on Daryl's stomach. 

Jesus starts laughing, and suddenly, this ain't that bad. 

\--- 

It's been at least an hour, Daryl guesses. Neither of them are sleeping, and the pretending-slash-half-dozing he knows they've both been doin' is starting to feel pointless. Jesus must agree.

"Daryl? Mind if I ask you something?"

He manages half a response; even to his own ears he ain't really sure what it is. He's too busy letting his brain fill up with too many questions and answers he ain't sure he wants to get into. 

"I'm just curious, and you can tell me to fuck off, but why _are_ you out here, anyway?"

Huh.

That one hadn't been on the list. But compared to everything else he's been acutely worried about- the _why're you so weird_ , the joking _hey, uh, do you do this kind of thing often_ , and even the traitorous, sparking, impossible _do you want to make out_ \- it's an astoundingly easy question to answer.

"Needed to not fuck things up for everyone."

Jesus shifts, and Dog rolls onto his back, probably wondering if it means he's about to get his rightful spot back. Instead, all Dog earns is a scritch behind the ears for his troubles. 

"How d'you mean?"

"I went to Alexandria, me and Rick would be warring instead of getting shit done. If I stuck around Hilltop... I don't know that me and Maggie wouldn't just... feed off each other, or something. And then we're back to warrin' again, only with more people dragged into it."

Jesus doesn't argue, or point out any gaping holes in his logic, for which he's grateful. But he does go quiet, for a while. 

"What about the Kingdom? You know they'd be happy to have you join up." 

Daryl doesn't, now that it comes down to it, really know how to answer that one. But apparently Jesus is taking his silence as some other kind of consideration. 

"Or is it weird, the whole Carol and Ezekiel thing?"

"Huh?" And then he gets it, what Jesus is asking. _Ezekiel's_ weird- corny as fuck, really- but he's good people, and Carol's finally seems _happy_. That, and for the first time since he's known her, it don't feel like either of them owe each other, or need each other, for anything. "Nah. Me and Carol, weren't never like that."

"So, you're sayin' that I've got a shot," Jesus says, letting out a nervous laugh and then cringing so hard that Daryl can feel it through the mattress. He's only dimly aware of it, though, underneath the blood screaming in his ears.

"Huh?" He feels like he ought to be actually sayin' something. _Doing_ something. Sitting the fuck up, at least. But instead he freezes, certain, somehow, that any movement's gonna flip some kind of switch somewhere, and he dont' know what it'll do. 

\--- 

_Fuck_. 

"Uh. Never mind, sorry." Paul shifts back to the very edge of the bed, getting his elbow underneath him. " _Fuck_ , that was supposed-"

_To not happen like that. To not happen at all_

"That some kind of joke?"

"Kind of." Paul sits up. It was funnier- and not suicidal, or creepy, or plain old stupid- in his head. "Would you believe I got hit in the head earlier today?"

"Thought you weren't concussed."

"I wasn't- " he laughs, startled. Not at all manic. "Though maybe I had a filter shaken loose." Or maybe the booze and the painkillers he'd taken are to blame. "Anyway. Didn't mean to make it weird."

He'd been too relaxed, he thinks. He'd been calm and comfortable and drowsy, settled in like everything was fine the way he never is, these days. And now even _Dog's_ all riled up, pacing around on the bed, like a big canine neon sign reading _You Fucking Idiot_.

"You about done, then?"

"Huh?"

Daryl props himself up on his right arm, reaching out to get the dog settled down. It takes him a minute to say anything, and in that time, Paul's calculated the distance he _thinks_ it is, hiking cross-country back to Hilltop. He just needs to get his boots, and his coat, and-

"Just lie back down, or whatever." Daryl grumbles, shaking his head. "It's cool." 

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"'Cause You _did_ just hear me-" 

"And I don't give a damn," Daryl points out, frowning sharp and sudden. Then, more quietly, "Seriously. We're good, okay?"

\--- 

Jesus lets out a careful, deep breath, and nods, looking a little defeated and wary enough for the both of them. Another minute, and he's getting' back underneath the covers. 

Which is more than Daryl could've hoped for, given how _royally_ he's fuckin' this up with every goddamned word. Because he knows, he fuckin' _knows_ he could probably get this sorted out- _more_ than sorted out- with only a few _right_ words. 

It's just. They're kind of heavy. Or like there's too much weight that'll be put on 'em if he says them now. Besides Jesus is already freaked out- probably more than Daryl himself is- and it's just _wrong_ , somehow. The guy'd gone toe-to-toe with Negan, and he'd been laughing, making jokes and shit while ducking Lucille.

Awkward's better'n broken, when it comes down to it, and for once in his life, it's pretty clear runnin' ain't the answer. 

So he settles back, too, pretends at an ease he definitely ain't feeling. Gets Dog to hunker back down, more deliberately grateful for the barrier of fur than before, and pretends like his brain ain't racing a mile a minute. Tries to figure out how to make words not weigh as much. 

\--- 

Jesus'd pretended for a while- they both had- but he'd eventually passed out, pretty heavily from the sounds of it. Daryl still ain't slept at all. 

But he's had time to think, sort some shit out. Not, like, _plans_ , but... resolutions, maybe. 

First off, he needs to reprogram his brain a bit. Cause if he's going to actually go through with what he's thinking of doing, it seems like he ought to be able to call Jesus by his real name. 

It's gonna take a little while, he figures, to get the balance back. And given how fucking awkward it's going to be in the morning, it's probably best if both of them get some distance for a bit, once he drops him back off at Hilltop. But not as much as it's been. 

He could radio over there, check up on him in a few days. See how he's doing, take it from there, maybe even mend a few fences along the way.

It's December 26th now. Which means he's got plenty of time to work up the nerve before Valentine's Day.


End file.
